


I Kissed Mine Archer at the Eleventh Bell, but O’ My Friend, He'll Never Tell

by poetica (TheFire_in_the_NightSky)



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Angst and Humor, Blue-Purple Hawke (Dragon Age), Cullbastian are the main pairing, Cullen Tries to Be, Custom Male Hawke (Dragon Age), Drunken Flirting, Emotional Constipation, Everyone Has Issues, Everyone Needs A Hug, Garrus the Mabari, Hawke is a Good Bro, Hopeful Ending, Introspection, M/M, Minor Fenris/Male Hawke (Dragon Age), Post-Break Up, Relationship Advice, Sad Hawke (Dragon Age), Slice of Life, Why Did I Write This?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-06
Updated: 2019-11-06
Packaged: 2021-01-24 02:40:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21330910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheFire_in_the_NightSky/pseuds/poetica
Summary: Marius Hawke, handsome rogue and freelancing mercenary, is still reeling from his "break-up" with Fenris.  He tries to drown his sorrows in tavern rotgut.  Because that is what any respectable man would do- what am I supposed to do? Wallow? I don't wallow. Well, not where people cansee.Not where Fenris can see...Oh look, there's the Knight-Captain. Now, I would certainly fancy drowning myselfin that.What am I saying? No, I know pity-lays never help. Most of the time. Besides, Sebastian and Cullen are stillmooningover each other in between their silent squabbles and clandestine meetings like something out of one of Varric's horrid books. Well, I suppose it's a good thing Fenris and I... whatever we had, are over with so we don't end up as saccharine characters in some sweeping romance. No, doesn't bother me at all. I'm fine. Everything is fine.Ohhh,what the piss did I just step in? I hope that belonged to a dog...He's rambling isn't he? He's rambling. Definitely not drunk, though. At least I'm not thinking aloud this time. It wouldn't do to look like a downtrodden sodanda loony. What would my mother say?
Relationships: Cullen Rutherford/Sebastian Vael, Fenris/Male Hawke, Hawke & Cullen Rutherford, Male Hawke & Sebastian Vael
Comments: 2
Kudos: 13





	I Kissed Mine Archer at the Eleventh Bell, but O’ My Friend, He'll Never Tell

**Author's Note:**

> A tale in which Hawke is drunk, tries to play matchmaker for his friends, and everyone has relationship issues. And perhaps they learn to be mature adults. Sort of.

_ “You,”  _ Marius collapses a bit heavier than was his initial intent and therefore, a little more overdramatically against the wall Knight-Captain Cullen is so stoically protecting. Parts of his armour make an unpleasant clatter against the stone. He grimaces and Cullen peers down at his semi-slumped form with an annoyed (but maybe not altogether  _ uninterested) _ brow and that lovely mouth of his is set in a way that Marius... can't actually argue against being quite disapproving. Hm.

The Knight Captain sighs and turns away. Marius notices the hand that's crossed over to Cullen’s left hip tightens on the pommel of his sword. Ah, definitely annoyed then. Damn.

“I…?” Cullen asks in an exasperated, impatient tone.  _ Oh, please.  _ This is exactly why Marius has decided to come to the aid of this tightly-wound bastard! “Do you…” Cullen tries to continue, it seems. He isn’t very good at words when he's not shouting out orders or grumbling, is he then?

Marius squints into the torch-lit darkness of the Gallows, trying to remember what he was originally going to tell Cullen. He straightens up, armour bits and dagger hilts screeching up along the stone of the wall as he does so. “As I was saying, before your _frown– _no matter how attractive I find you, y’know,” Marius taps a finger on Cullen's pauldron then points accusatorily in the general direction of his pleasantly square chin. “you still smile less than the average person. Less than _Fenris! _ Anyway, before your frown so rudely interrupted my train of _thought, _I was going to suggest that you look as though you could use a drink, my dear friend. With me, that is.” Marius gives a smile that would render the knees of most men weak (and women if he's feeling particularly fed up with a roguish ruse not having its desired effect alone). Alright, maybe not Fenris, though. He's not always fallen for it. No, Fenris would just roll his eyes and grouse at him to _stop it, _even though Marius could clearly see the tips of his ears pinken.

Cullen doesn't look at him, the rude twit. “And you, Hawke, look as though you have had perhaps one too many. I do think I'll pass.”

“They teach you templars arithmetic, do they? Because I'm not so sure five tankards equates to  _ too many _ , in my experience. Seven, maybe. But I suppose it also depends on if Varric–”

“Can you not be drunk somewhere else? Or are you so inebriated that you've accidentally wandered here instead of Hightown? I see you've forgotten your handlers at the tavern.” Cullen faces him fully now, voice but a hiss, golden eyes fierce. And, oh. Maker, but he'd forgotten how handsome the Knight-Captain really was. Actually, that's a lie. Marius could remember alright, he'd just been too distracted making calf-eyes at Fenris for years. Fenris.  _ Fuck.  _ Maybe he should go home. But he'd like to kiss Cullen. Wouldn't that be a nice end cap to his evening? Mm, Cullen's young, but he isn't an idiot. Not a careless git like Marius, who'd pushed Fenris into a “relationship” of sorts after he'd– He’s letting his thoughts veer off course again, isn’t he? And of course, there is the matter of Cullen having struggles-in-love of his own sort. A struggle Marius has found himself in the middle of quite frequently, even if it’s due to his inserting himself as mediator.

Wait now… _ actually, Cullen… _

Marius again feels that wicked grin forming on his face as he begins to speak, especially now that Cullen can actually _ appreciate _ it. “Certain holy, sombre company I was keeping tonight at The Hanged Man actually reminds me, Knight-Captain. You still meeting a mutual… ah, princely friend of ours in secret, or have things soured? Are there still midnight kisses behind towering statues of slaves?” Marius gives a mock gasp and throws the back of his hand to his forehead. “And if he tilts his head  _ just  _ right, the moonlight catches the red of his hair–”

Cullen rounds on him, and oh! Now Marius  _ had  _ forgotten how well the young man could blush. “Maker’s breath! What do you want from me?”

Marius brushes his hair from his face, rights his jerkin, clears his throat. All allusions to appearing halfway presentable for his noble neighbors. “C’mon then, get someone to watch your post for a couple hours and walk this drunk idiot home.” He doesn't like the near disgusted and vexed expression on Cullen's face. Well, now it's his turn to sigh exasperatedly. He shoots Cullen a rigid, impatient glare. “Because it's your chivalrous duty or some such nonsense? And then you're having a fucking drink with me, Rutherford. And we can both bemoan our paramours in one another’s miserable company.” Marius pushes off the wall finally, feeling proper wobbly, and more so than he anticipated; the ale he'd quickly downed finally smacking him in the head.

“I– I'll walk you to your estate, Hawke, but nothing else… If for no other reason than not wanting your clumsy death by cutpurse on my hands come morning.” Cullen looks thrilled; he doesn't.

“Clumsy? I'll have you know,  _ nothing _ I do is 'clumsy,’ and any death I should face would be a heroic one,” Marius argues with a negligible amount of put-upon offence. “As if I’d let a bloody common brigand best me…  _ Tch.” _ he mumbles.

But then something quite strange happens with the young Knight-Captain’s face that catches Marius off-guard. A full-on smirk? Could it be? The heavens shall fall on this day– er, night, rather. “Yes, I'm sure. That is why you should be ashamed of your current state, sirrah.” Cullen nods in front of them. “Go on, walk a straight line.” 

Marius… well, he does  _ try.  _ And he's fairly certain that if it wasn't for his daggers strapped to his back, or the miséricorde at his hip, he'd be walking just fine. So, he stumbles.  _ A little.  _

He absolutely does not trip over an uneven stone. The city should fix that… dangerous. He'll have to have a word with the viscount about this. What if he were some fragile old woman? Tsk, tsk.

Marius glares up at Cullen. “Oh that– That's– Now, you see why you 'ave to walk me home? Trying to call me out for a liar…” he grumbles as he hefts himself off the ground, dusting both his bruised arse and ego off.

And Cullen is looking too smug for his own good, the bastard. Sebastian gets the same look, sometimes. Marius wonders if they just swoon over each other's good looks while sassing one another over who misremembered a line in what Canticle during the Chant… or whatever it is they get up to while remaining in the Chantry’s good graces as they go about their little charade.

Marius can’t fault them for pretending though, he supposes. He’s doing a pretty poor job at pretending he’s alright without Fenris by his side in the way he’d truly wanted. Sometimes it's easier to go about life as if everything is perfectly normal.

“I'm not questioning your honesty, Hawke.” Cullen's voice is softer, gone more sympathetic. He plays his part in their act and shoulders some of Marius's weight while Marius tries to hobble on as if he is feeling physically more drunk than he actually is– thinks he is. “But I cannot help wondering, what has put you in such a state, anyway?”

They walk on. Marius isn't looking forward to steps or stairs. He forgot about all the blighted steps they're going to have to traverse up and down before they get to his estate.  _ “Well,  _ usually, one has a drink– alcoholic, mind. That bit’s important– then another, and anoth–”

“I speak of your  _ mood,  _ Hawke. All the good citizens of Kirkwall have seen you and your comrades drunk, plenty. This time, though… you seem to have been searching for something at the bottom of your cups.” 

Marius heaves a sigh. Well, he was never a good liar when it came to his friends or those he cares about. And he  _ supposes  _ he counts Cullen as a friend, if not a tentative one for now. The trust he has put into Sebastian's judgement may have greased the way to that end, just a bit. “I didn't find it,” Marius answers, finally. “Your armour is quite… pointy, by the way. It’s uncomfortable.”

“I don’t have to carry you through the city, you know. I could go back to my post.”

“No, no. It’s fine. And you’re  _ escorting  _ me, not carrying. I’ll walk on my own once we’re in Hightown.”

Cullen chuckles. “Of course. So, drinking did not fix your problems, then you came to find me, instead? To–? What, complain at me and do a remarkably poor job at trying to use what I assume you thought were charming manners?” There's a thread of amusement twined with curiosity in Cullen's voice. 

Marius tugs at it. “Oh, shut it. My charms work perfectly well on people with souls.” Cullen gives him a look of indignation laced with a smile. “You know how close Fenris and I were?”

“Sebastian mentioned it in passing, yes. He isn't one for gossip, and neither am I, he is simply fond of you both. But, Hawke… your use of 'were’ just now wasn't lost on me.”

Stairs feel like suctioning mud and muck, pulling the energy right out of Marius with each step. “He left me.” And oh, to speak the words – to say it real and aloud – that is nearly worse than watching Fenris's back retreating from his rooms that night.

He sees Cullen nod from his periphery. “I will have one drink with you, Hawke.”

Marius draws his brows down – a bit surprised, but mostly concerned – and watches the tick in Cullen’s jaw while he stares ahead resolutely. He nods in turn, even if Cullen doesn’t notice, because he cannot trust his voice to form around the words, “thank you” just now.

* * *

“I get on with all dogs, usually.” Cullen watches a corner of Hawke’s mouth lift in one of the smuggest grins he’s ever seen. Hawke leans slightly over the arm of his chair to take his mabari’s face in both hands, roughing up his jowls with the fondest look in his eyes. From where Cullen sits across from them, he can see the canine’s large rump wriggle in lieu of a tail to dance in affection.

Hawke sits back, pours himself more wine. Cullen sighs through his nose, and is thankful for the cuirass he wears, hiding the tired exhale in his chest. He’d promised Hawke  _ one  _ drink, though he supposes it doesn't count, as he has not yet finished his own. Cullen brings his wine glass up to his lips for a small sip, mostly enjoying the plummy aroma greeting his nose. He needs a clear head while he is on duty. Though his mind has barely been that as of late, with or without drink.

“I’m sure you are, Knight-Captain. But  _ this,”  _ Hawke gestures grandly with another crooked smile aimed down at his four-legged companion. Cullen swears he can see matching stars in the mabari’s glittering eyes as well when he lifts his massive head to stare up at his master. Perhaps it’s just the play of firelight from the nearby hearth. “is a  _ mabari,”  _ Hawke finishes with great emphasis.

Cullen sighs again, crosses his arms, and leans back in his chair as casually as his bulky armour will allow. “Yes,  _ I’m aware.” _

“Mm.” Hawke bows forward to rest his jaw in one hand. His eyes, glassy and turbulent like the sea’s surface during a storm, narrow and seem to be searching Cullen’s face for something. He doesn’t like being scrutinised under Hawke’s gaze. He cannot say he much enjoys anyone looking at him for too long. It makes his skin tingle uncomfortably and his heart beat in a nauseating rhythm. Sebastian knows when to shift his eyes away from Cullen’s in a way that always comes off as more demure than as a move to placate Cullen’s strange, new anxieties. Well, new to him. Alas, perhaps it is the fact that the way he is is all Sebastian has known of him, therefore he hasn’t grown entirely sick of him just yet. Even so, Cullen would not fault the man if he grew weary of the eggshells they both constantly need to walk upon. He tries not to squirm in his chair, looks around the warm, ruddy-toned room to the walls that embrace many a full bookcase.

“You’re aware then,” Hawke still seems to have a sharp focus on their pointless conversation, though he seems a bit delayed in keeping the volley up. “that they are very,  _ very  _ protective and loyal towards those they connect with?”

“In Ferelden, I’d heard a story or two from the men and women in the barracks about the family dogs they’d left behind when they travelled from home for their templar training. And, a man in Honnleath had one. They seem to be quite extraordinary beasts, yes.”

Hawke slumps back in his chair with a grin that is all too mischievous for Cullen’s liking. Although, that just seems to be Hawke’s face most days. Especially if he is speaking with Meredith in a public setting where he has the high potential for an audience,  _ Maker help him… _

“Well, poor Garrus here  _ did  _ see you take away his Auntie Bethy, or so was relayed to me from my mother and uncle upon my return from the expedition. Therefore, you’re just on his shit-list, is all.” Hawke smiles and chuckles good-naturedly. It makes Cullen nervous.

He wants to apologise, though it was just part of his duty as a templar, not a personal attack on their family; he’d had orders and no chances left to take with matters such as that. But the only thing that tumbles from Cullen’s mouth is a stuttered utterance of, “I w-wasn’t aware that dogs had– l-lists such as that, Hawke.” Cullen’s armour suddenly feels stifling.

Barking out a laugh like a gleeful dog himself, Hawke grabs up his glass of wine and takes a large gulp. He sucks his teeth then wags a finger in Cullen’s direction.  _ “Mabari  _ do.” 

Cullen tries his damnedest not to laugh at the absurdity of all of this, and when he feels the muscles in his face begin to pull into a smile, Cullen scoffs, shaking his head. He tastes his wine a little more appreciatively. When he looks up at Hawke, the man is scrubbing a hand over his face.

Maker,  _ please  _ do not let Hawke be sick while he is here. He’s not the patience nor the time.

“Ughh,” Hawke groans loudly and rubs the heels of his palms against his eyes. When he pulls his hands away, his eyes appear reddened from something more than overindulgence in drink. Hawke looks off to the side, perhaps trying to focus on the spines of books, or the swaying flames of the fire beside them for some form of distraction, for his expression becomes a little haunted the longer he goes without speaking.

Cullen is about to ask Hawke if he’s alright before he finally opens his mouth. “I should probably keep my voice down.” His voice is a grated whisper. “I’m lucky Orana isn’t here to scold me into submission about being quiet while the rest of the house sleeps.”

“Yes, may I inquire as to where you sent her off to?” Cullen had noticed Hawke whisper something to her after greeting her warmly once they’d crossed the threshold of the Hawke Estate. Soon after, the elven woman had been off in a flurry of skirts, deep brown cloak thrown over her narrow shoulders and a determined look on her pretty features. Cullen realises now that the discreet exchange was obviously none of his business and he’s overstepped his bounds so clearly in Hawke’s own home. “I’m– my– forgive me, it’s only–” Cullen gives it one more go. “Well, it  _ is  _ quite late, after all, and the streets are not the safest after dark, especially for a lady. Even in Hightown. You should know, Hawke.”

“Don’t fret, Rutherford. She’s had skilled teachers making sure she knows how to handle herself should the need arise, myself included, by the way. And besides... she’s only going– she’s–” Hawke cuts himself off with a small grin, as if he’d remembered something humorous. “She isn’t going far. And it is safe– where she’ll be. I reckon she won’t fall into trouble of any sort on the way home, either.”

For a short time, the sitting room falls into an awkward lull in conversation with only the steady crackle and hum of the fire to break up the monotony of the silence around them. Hawke’s mabari lets out a quiet little  _ whoof  _ of air and settles his muzzle down between his paws as if he too is feeling the tedium of the moment. Cullen wonders if it wouldn’t be best for him to just excuse himself for the night. He’s ashamed to admit he has not been paying close attention to the passing of time since he’d left the Gallows with Marius Hawke in tow. 

Though, he also hadn’t informed Hawke that his watch had almost been over when the man had approached him, and he’d had to bribe a young templar to take over for the remainder of his shift. A bribe that promised some of Cullen’s coin for a romp at the Blooming Rose, unfortunately. As templars, they didn’t have much in the way of gold, and Cullen did not spend what little he collected all that often. He wouldn’t miss it. He could have done without the leering smile on the young man’s face when Cullen gave his proposition, however. It made his stomach turn.

To be quite honest, Cullen is feeling a mite fidgety. Earlier, he thought Hawke too drunk to truly converse for long, but that theory was proven well wrong as Hawke immediately started in on idle chit-chat and mild tavern gossip the moment they’d entered his estate’s foyer. Cullen had hoped to have this little escort trip over and done with sooner rather than later; he’d hoped, selfishly so, to use an early end to his rounds to spend a bit more time visiting Sebastian. He wanted–  _ needed _ to smooth things over with him before the night was through.

That very thought stokes his impatience, and Cullen is about to stand and say his farewells and good evenings to Hawke when the man finally stirs in his seat. Cullen’s attention is caught by Hawke’s right hand, his ring finger slowly tracing the rim of his glass. Hawke smiles, and a laugh that’s cold and bitter rises quietly from his chest.

“You know, I hadn’t really thought anything would come of Fenris and I. I spent most of my time being a bumbling idiot around him or stupidly trying to show off just to see that worried, frustrated scowl on his face.” Hawke rubs his fingers back and forth over his stubbled jaw now, and when he speaks again, his voice is a tremulous murmur that admittedly breaks Cullen’s heart. “But I’d  _ hoped.” _

Cullen crosses and uncrosses his ankles beneath the table a few times. He half-expects the mabari to whine in sympathy for his human. 

He doesn’t know what to say to comfort, and Cullen never really knew the intricacies of the bond between the strange, mysterious elf and Hawke to be sure of where empathetic words would hit their mark if spoken. It simply wasn’t his place to ask about the two of them. The last time Sebastian had mentioned anything between them was a few months ago when he’d told Cullen he had offered Fenris a position of training his royal guard, but Sebastian hadn’t pressed Fenris because he was unsure of the depth of the relationship he and Hawke had. Said he did not want to jeopardise anything for them. Ever the pragmatist, Sebastian. Where it truly mattered, anyway.

Although, of course… that conversation had quickly devolved into an argument about Sebastian truly leaving the chantry or not; whether he’d leave Cullen for Starkhaven’s throne. Cullen grits his teeth then swallows down the rest of his wine.

Cullen at the very least, understands hope.

“Hawke, that is all you can continue to do, at the moment: hope. _ _ For we cannot know what another person’s innermost thoughts are, I’m afraid. Even when we so desperately wish to.” Cullen sits back, feeling a little better at having said  _ something.  _ Though he could not say how much it would aid his friend’s mood in the short term.

Hawke reaches forward to grab the wine bottle up, shakes his head as he pours another glassful. “Mm, you weren’t there, Cullen. Something went  _ wrong.  _ He came here, things went– well,  _ sweet bloody Andraste…  _ better than good, and then I awoke to him standing in front of the fire – fully strapped in his armour, mind. Which was, I admit, a confounding type of  _ travesty  _ all on its own.”

Very quickly, Cullen is now able to paint a picture of what Hawke is alluding to. He feels his face and neck heat as if he were centimetres from the fire beside them. Rubbing a hand along his nape, Cullen trips over words that would find him a polite out to this conversation, or at least redirect it. 

“I– Hawke, I am not so certain I should be–”

“I know most of what he’s been through, you know? So I would never press him to return to my side in any capacity, and I thought I would find myself exceedingly grateful to have Fenris still tagging along with our friends and I, wherever we went gallivanting off to, despite what happened, but…” Hawke’s eyes dart around and his mouth finally parts on a pause. Cullen has to divert his own eyes when he glimpses the wobble in Hawke’s jaw.

“It makes it  _ infinitely  _ harder.” The line of Hawke’s mouth is a sneer and his full voice has gone throaty, as if he is angry and bitter with his own emotions. “But he’s  _ right there,  _ always. Even when we aren’t together at The Hanged Man, or traipsing through Kirkwall on some ridiculous errand, he’s… Fenris is still just a stone’s throw away from my home. I still feel his presence in these rooms, Cullen.”

“Hawke,” Cullen starts as he tries to wrestle some bravery for his mouth to speak what his mind is thinking. “it’s more than apparent that you care deeply for Fenris, so I am certain he knows this, himself. With hope comes patience, and perhaps with time and the space you are willing to offer him, things between the two of you can be repaired, if they are indeed broken at all.”

Hawke laughs under his breath as he tucks wayward strands of hair behind his ears. His jaw-length waves are gilded in the firelight and he looks small and young with his hair out of his face. No longer does Hawke appear to be the man who would fearlessly back-talk a mercenary while at knifepoint before condemning him to the Void with his own dagger. His expression has grown weary and exhausted.

“I’ll have all the patience of a lifetime, then. Should that be what it takes, and if not then, well... “ Hawke shrugs one shoulder and gives Cullen a smile that clearly takes monumental effort. “I suppose I can learn to be glad for what time we did have together.” Cullen nods his head solemnly, and then Hawke says, “I’m sure you know what that is like, Rutherford.”

Cullen pours himself a splash of more wine. “Perhaps,” is all he can manage to answer Hawke with. He feels the prickle of shame creeping up his face.

“Are you telling me not to give up my hope with Fenris because you’ve lost your aspirations for what you and Sebastian have or could have?”

“Hawke, that’s not–”

“My business? Maybe so, but I see Sebastian hang his head more often these days after seeing you when we're passing through the Gallows together. I know he’s strongly considering staying in Kirkwall to right wrongs here, but it is also because of  _ you,  _ Knight-Captain. He worries you treat him as though he’s already made his mind up about Starkhaven, that you’ve given up.”

Cullen cannot hear anymore.  _ “Sirrah, _ with all due respect, our business is, as you said, not any of yours. You may be used to using your friends as a shoulder to lean on, and true, I let you take the comfort of my own this night, but…” Cullen exhales slowly, clenches his fists until he feels the metal of his gauntlet grind together. “I must remind you that whatever it is Sebastian and I have cannot be known. Who is to say it won’t be the same in Starkhaven? But worse?” He cannot help but laugh incredulously at the thought of he and Sebastian being able to be free and public with how they care for one another if he takes back the Vael throne in Starkhaven. What would a lowly templar have to offer a prince? He'd have no dowry to speak of, what with his practically non-existent income. And if one were to trace back the centuries, Cullen is sure his family would not contain a drop of noble blood in its lineage.

“It is hard to hold onto optimism knowing what you hold dear is likely doomed at every turn. Sebastian said to me…” Cullen clears his throat, unsure of how much he is willing to reveal to Hawke of what he normally prefers to keep private. Tonight, Hawke exposed an open wound to Cullen, infected with grief and heartbreak, and trusted him with that vulnerability. Perhaps it is only right that Cullen extend the same amount of trust to Hawke. “He said to me that he wonders if we are not prolonging our own suffering, that it has been weighing heavy on his heart and mind as of late. He prays that Andraste will guide him in what path to follow. I told him it isn’t that simple. He says I am losing my faith because of… what I have seen as a templar and my 'tether’ to the Order. He worries I will become obsessed, even if I move on to yet another circle.”

Across from Cullen, Hawke shifts in his chair. “Is this when you two had an old married couple’s row, then? Why you’ve both been so…  _ melancholic  _ lately?”

“Melancholic? I believe you are the pot and we the kettle in this instance, Hawke.”

Hawke rolls his eyes and kicks a booted foot up onto the table. “I’ll bear you no ill will for that insinuation, my friend.” Cullen wants to protest, but snaps his jaw shut and bites his tongue before the words can make their escape. “I fell in love with a mysterious, handsome, woebegone elf who just so happens to be a former Tevinter slave… on the run,  _ yes.” _ Hawke brushes his hand through the air as if those descriptors mean nothing. “I like to make my own trouble, it’s true. But you,” He points to Cullen. “You and Sebastian, Andraste bless him – as I’m sure she does or whatever have you, because of his admirable piety – he is a dear friend, but you’re proper dolts, the both of you, you know.”

Through grit teeth, Cullen asks, “And why is that?”

“He hasn't renewed his vows, in part because of his affections for you, you are aware of this, yes?” Hawke levels his gaze on Cullen as if he's a child with no common sense.

“...yes. But that doesn't–”

“He loves you, Cullen. And I believe you know that to be unquestionable, so… don’t give in to gloom just yet, is my point. But Maker’s balls, I reckon you should show him that, as well.” 

Cullen answers Hawke only with silence, letting everything sink in, and Hawke does not look at him with any amount of expectancy. He is grateful for that small reprieve from his aggressive personality.

Time after time, this man who was once a stranger, then a pain in the neck to the Guard and Templars alike, has come to surprise Cullen in many ways. But his selflessness has always remained constant, even if it has got him into more than his fair share of trouble throughout Kirkwall. Finally, Cullen tells him, “You may be destined for great things, Hawke. Do not yourself give up all ambition over something such as this. The affections we find in others throughout our lives are but an added, fortunate boon.”

“Mm.” Hawke smirks over at him. “Who says I’m giving up? Right then, and what about you? You've ambition too, under that stuffy, armoured collar of yours. You  _ are _ a  _ young  _ Knight-Captain. You’ve a life with years ahead to fulfill whatever it is you desire, no? Or does being a lapdog to the Order have no leeway for that?”

Ignoring Hawke’s “lapdog” remark, Cullen stares down at the grain of the table, lets the leather over his thumb catch against a large, dark knot of wood. “Of that… some days, I'm not so sure.”

He hopes Hawke doesn't notice the answer to a question he did not ask.

The door creaks open from the foyer, and Orana’s voice can be heard softly carrying through to the front room. She is speaking in hushed tones to someone else before the door is shut again. “...just in through there, messere. Will you be in need of anything else? Tea, perhaps?”

“No, that’s quite alright, Orana. But I thank you.” The sound of a man’s accented voice makes Cullen’s chest clench painfully; a shock that radiates outward to his limbs. Hawke’s mabari perks his head up with interest, alert ears pricked forward. The voice is in the doorway to Hawke’s library now, just behind Cullen. “Ah, my friend!” it calls out.

In one moment, Garrus was dosing peacefully beneath the table at Hawke’s feet, but in the next, he is up on all fours, bounding towards Sebastian. Cullen turns in his chair and sees a wide smile crack across Sebastian’s face when the dog halts in front of him, head bent forward, rump up in the air while his barely-there tail tries its best to wag happily. Sebastian gives the mabari a little bow, laughing. The sound is a balm.

The gentlemanly act drops as Sebastian crouches down to wordlessly ask for Garrus’s paw with one hand extended to the large mabari. Sebastian rewards the… handshake with strokes to Garrus’s neck before ruffling the fur atop his head as he stands. With silent inquiry, Cullen looks back to Hawke, who moves his foot off the table and winks at Cullen as he mildly reprimands Garrus for his excited whines mixed with dog-speak that have sharply increased in volume.

“Oh, I know, boy. Now, now. He’s one of your favourites, isn't he?” Hawke pats the side of his thigh and the mabari returns to his side immediately, sitting by Hawke’s chair. “Sebastian! Now I know you’ve only just got here, but I am terribly exhausted and... drunk, you see. But I  _ must  _ give you my thanks for helping… Orana… with that, uhm… errand, yes?” Hawke stands and walks lazily towards Sebastian, Garrus trailing as a fur-laden shadow. Hawke doesn’t try for the same coy ruse he’d used with Cullen, and by the small, knowing grin on Sebastian’s face, he needn’t try another ploy.

“Of course, Hawke. You need your beauty rest, I’m sure. Don’t want a nasty hangover weighing you down.” To see a playful spark in Sebastian’s eyes instead of the sorrow Cullen has witnessed recently fills his chest with warmth.

Hawke pats him on the shoulder. “Good man. Now, you’re acquainted with one another, if I’m not mistaken?” He looks from Sebastian to Cullen until Cullen nods and mumbles an embarrassed and irritated assent. “Then I suppose I will… just…” 

_ “Be off?”  _ Sebastian offers.

Hawke motions with a thumb pointed over his shoulder as he backs away. “Right. Exactly,  _ that. _ And you both promise to play nice while I leave you unattended?”

“Leaving us to our own devices? Heaven forfend, Hawke. I am not sure how we’ll manage without your hovering,” is Sebastian’s tart reply.

Hand over his chest, Hawke says, “You are a snarky little shit after my own heart, Your Highness. And I adore you. But, there is a perfectly good guest room in this house, so if I find out the two of you were having it off in my library–”

_ “Hawke!”  _ Sebastian exhales heavily once a giggling Hawke quickly heads upstairs, mabari lumbering after him. “He is a bit daft, isn’t he?” Sebastian says, good-naturedly, when he turns to Cullen. An attractive shade of pink now tinges his face and neck.

“Was this his plan all along, then?” Cullen asks, not quite daring to meet Sebastian’s eyes just yet. He concentrates on his steepled fingers in front of his face. “The two of us alone together; I assume he believes he is doing us a favour.”

Sebastian scoffs, walking over to Cullen. He wears neither royal armour nor heavy chantry robes this night. He is bare to Cullen in his simple, dark tunic and trousers. The laces at his throat are untied and hang loose, his sleeves rolled and pushed up to his elbows. Sebastian is dressed in a thoughtless, carefree way that Cullen has rarely witnessed in the man. 

“Of that I am not certain,” Sebastian begins. “I can only attest to the fact that Hawke is a wellspring of mischief and good-meaning deeds, planned in advance or no. However, I did believe he was up to something when he sent his servant to fetch me from the chantry, no sooner had I returned from the tavern and seen him there an hour prior. I found it odd and was concerned until Orana bid me to not come armed with my bow, at Hawke’s behest. After which, I was merely curious. Though I do wonder, how was it he managed to get you here, as well? This was certainly… a surprise I did not anticipate. Did he send that poor girl all over Kirkwall?” he chuckles. Maker, but Cullen’s heart is at this man’s mercy.

He scrubs a hand across his forehead, feeling both at peace and even more tense all at once. “I, uh… I’d rather not get into it, to be honest. Hawke can be... quite the handful, as I am sure you’re more than used to.” Cullen watches Sebastian a moment more, but he cannot stand the space between them any longer. Cullen removes his gauntlets, deftly working each strap loose. “‘Bastian, come here.” He reaches out with one hand. “...Please.”

And Sebastian’s face softens further somehow, Cullen’s heart breaking with that familiar and longed for comfort as hands reach for his pauldrons and his own reach for hips. For the first time in what feels like an age, Cullen desires those hands beneath what protects him; to be wrapped up in Sebastian; to feel what lyrium could never promise to give him. Perhaps, Cullen muses, Sebastian could eliminate his deepest fears or mend what must be damaged within him; cure his malady of touch.

He settles his head against the firm warmth of Sebastian’s stomach, and cool fingers brush across the back of his neck. “Forgive me,” Cullen nearly begs. He peers up at Sebastian. “And I ask that you might accept my confession… that I fear I will lose what has grown inside me, the only good left buried there, if I should lose you.”

“I am here with you now, do not treat me as though I have already left, Cullen. How else must I explain that to you?” His hands come to rest on the back of Cullen’s head, fingers barely raking through curls at his nape. “But even without me, there is benevolence within you, there always has been. You just have to learn to not let it slip so easily from your grasp in the face of duty and service. I myself must keep that in mind as I face whatever the Maker has planned for me, whatever battles he should place in my path. Vengeance nearly soured that for me, and it still leaves me questioning so much. But I cannot allow it to break me. Do not let the Order break you, Cullen. A circle is still a circle, wherever you go.”

“Were it that easy…” Cullen says quietly. He cannot bring himself to explain his fear of becoming the monster people whisper of him to already be, or the horror in those miserable visions he was shown while in– No, he mustn't go back there, mustn't give in. He has to become more. He cannot afford to splinter any further.

He stands before Sebastian and brushes his bare fingers back through the sides of his hair then presses his lips to Sebastian’s forehead. They stay like that for a stretch of quiet minutes, calm and as content as they can try to be these days. 

Cullen knows Sebastian’s hands are at his ribs, but all he can feel is the hollow containment of his armour. He takes his hands in his, and brings them first to his mouth, then the sides of his face until Sebastian cradles his jaw. He rubs his thumbs in circular motions beneath Cullen’s eyes, across his cheekbones.

The large clock stood against the wall of Hawke’s library gives a toll for midnight and in the distance, the chantry bell sends out its echo. Cullen kisses Sebastian with love, with reverence, and it reverberates through him as the hum of Sebastian’s mouth against his.

Sebastian’s hands move to loosen the straps connecting one of Cullen’s pauldrons to his cuirass. His eyes flit up to Cullen’s when their lips part. “Is this alright?” he whispers. Cullen hesitates for a heartbeat, but nods and works to help Sebastian free him of the upper half of his armour. In just his shirtsleeves, he relishes the feel of Sebastian’s body heat against him. He rucks up the hem of Sebastian’s tunic and slides his hand across the small of Sebastian’s back, fingertips just barely dipping past the waist of his trousers. 

_ “You’re here,” _ Cullen mouths across Sebastian’s lips, his chin; a prayer against his pulse point. “You’re here.” 

“Would it be unworthy of me if I asked you to take me upstairs?” Sebastian noses Cullen’s temple. He laughs and pulls Sebastian closer, kisses him deeply, mouth partially open enough for tongues to taste.

Well, Hawke  _ did  _ offer.

Cullen’s heart jumps in his throat, it is a near-painful thing in its urgent flutter, blood racing to make every inch of his skin scream out for more and more and more. It surprises him, the tune inside his head no longer discordant for the time being. “No… no it wouldn’t,” he says with a smile and an unfamiliar swell of giddiness. In Sebastian’s presence, in this grain of sand that currently encapsulates their time with one another, Cullen does not know fear, but strength.

  


**Author's Note:**

> I took inspiration from tarot symbology and numerology - two cards from the Major Arcana represented by Cullen & Sebastian (points to anyone who can figure out which, the numbers are cited in the story), and the Two of Swords for Marius.  
________________________  
And Cullen's silly little poem (because the image may be hard to read on mobile):
> 
> Only you, Maker, and one other, know this secret of ours, kept safe and fragile in its shell:  
I kissed mine archer at the eleventh bell, but o’ my friend, he'll never tell,  
Never tell  
The Order would say I lost my head and sense; came under a mage’s spell  
They'd tell tale of the rebellious prince who'd gone mad as well  
But our one peculiar roguish friend, for us both these rumours he would dispel  
As he himself owns a full foolish heart he must quell  
For even men of strongest constitution, desire hath so befell  
A wolf for the Hawke; a warrior of much curiosity, bid that love a swift farewell  
And my love and I, did watch as our comrade’s face, darkened and disheartened, fell  
'Tis as such when an affection grows past an all-consuming swell  
With prayers on lips, this hero of my new home I would wish well  
For I cannot know what mine own story’s luck shall soon foretell  
Until then, I'll take not an honest love for granted, and kiss mine archer to the melody of the midnight bell...
> 
> Comments, feedback, & kudos ever appreciated, as always♡  
And if you so wish, you can find me on tumblr @thefire-in-the-nightsky and/or @oh_amatus on Twitter.


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